#(not my) ocs

[ella-and-the-ocean]

I felt compelled to write a small interpretation of what happened to our favorite OCs. I hope you'll enjoy.

🖋 1214 words

⚠️ blood and injury, violence, murder, brief violence against children

starts under the cut

“Vincent, watch out!”

But Vincent was still occupied taking down two men who were attacking him with all they got, their heavy armor making it harder to land a final blow. He didn't notice the third man approaching him with a knife.

Quinn was still on his sniper post, but had run out of bullets.

“Vince! Do you copy?”

But Vincent gave no indication that he had heard him or noticed the approaching foe.

Quinn swore as he abandoned his rifle and made his way to Vincent in a mad dash to get to him before the third man could knife him down. He had no plan of action, no strategy for self defense, he just needed to get there first. 

And he did. He threw his body between Vincent and the blade, but he had no time to block the blow. Instead he felt the knife slice through his skin and fat and organ tissue. He drew his own blade and buried it deep in his opponent's jugular. They went down together. 

Quinn's vision was swimming. When everything came back into focus, Vincent's face was hovering above him, worried and angry in equal measure.

“You goddamn idiot. I had it under control.”

His hands were pressed to Quinn's abdomen, it hurt like a bitch.

Quinn closed his eyes and let his head fall back with a groan.

“Don't you dare die on me. Medevac is on its way.”

“Not dying,” Quinn mumbled, “no visions.”

"Good. Keep it that way.” He still sounded angry.

“Yessir.” 

“Look at me.” Now he sounded more desperate than angry, so Quinn opened his eyes. They were bloody heavy. Black dots danced in front of his vision as he tried to focus on Vincent's face.

“What were you thinking?”

His eyes looked wet. Like the blood that was oozing out between the fingers he pressed to the ugly gash in his abdomen. Quinn had always wondered how he dealt with the bloodshed in the field. If it had gotten easier to resist over all those years. He had never asked.

“Couldn't– let your pretty mug get ruined.” he slurred, tongue as heavy as his eyes.

Vincent's next words got drowned out by a familiar rush of blood roaring up in his ears accompanied by a wave of nausea.

Seemed like his earlier health assessment might not have been as stellar as he had thought.

The world in front of his eyes started to flimmer like a broken display, black dots growing until they left him numb and blind in the darkness.

He tried to brace himself, but there was no bracing for what his visions showed him.

He saw women getting shot down in what looked like a school. Blood splashing over colorful children's paintings and textbooks. Girls were screaming and crying while they got dragged out by their hair and thrown into the dirt, forced to watch as their remaining teachers were executed before black hoods were pulled over their heads and they were abducted into an uncertain future.

When he came to, all the pain and nausea was still there. He couldn’t see properly, didn’t know where he was, but instinctively, he tried to roll over in an attempt not to choke on his own vomit, but someone was holding him back.

“Shh, I got you, it’s okay.” A familiar voice said, cool hands gently pressing down on his chest to keep him down. Hearing that voice soothed some of the mental agony, but didn’t alleviate the urge to empty his stomach. Quinn gagged helplessly; gastric acid burning in his throat, filling his mouth. The voice above him sweared.

“Hands off, I’ll put him in recovery position,” an unfamiliar voice commanded. The cool hands disappeared and rough hands were manhandling him onto his side.

“What about his wound?”

“He’ll live.” 

“You say that five minutes after we had to resuscitate him?!” Quinn finally recognized the voice; had heard that angry, disbelieving shade of it more often than he could count, every time he’d “done something stupid”. 

“Vince,” he garbled around another gush of acid leaving his agitated stomach.

“I’m here.” The cool hands were back, brushing some strands of hair from his sweaty forehead, then settled against his overheated skin.

“We’ll give him another minute, then we have to move. The fibrin glue and compression bandage will do until we’re on base,” said the unfamiliar voice, and a foreign pair of hands briefly tinkered with the part of his torso that felt numb and afire alike.

Somewhere between being hauled into the helo and flying back to base, Quinn lost consciousness again. 

When he woke up for good, he was lying in a hospital bed. The incessant beeping of a nearby heart monitor worsened the migraine that made his head swim, but at least the aggressive neon lights were dimmed down. 

Quinn forced his eyes to focus and took stock of himself. Unsurprisingly, the nearby heart monitor was hooked up to himself, and he had two infusions, one seemed to be blood – again, unsurprisingly – the other probably a cocktail of antibiotics and painkillers. The lack of pain in his abdomen was a strong indicator. 

Also unsurprising, was Vincent’s looming presence in a chair next to his bed, pulled up as close as possible. His expression was a potent mix of relief, anger and worry, his red eyes sparkling like livewires. 

“Would it help if I said I’m sorry?” Quinn asked.

“Are you?” Ah, so he was stuck with anger for the moment.

“Not really.”

“What you did was–” Vincent swelled in his seat, and Quinn prepared for a lengthy lecture that didn’t come, “so incredibly stupid.” 

“Well, you might be dead if I hadn’t done it.”

“You were dead!” Suddenly, Vincent was on his feet and hauled his chair across the room. “Three agonizing minutes long, your heart was not beating. I could hear your body shutting down, could hear your blood stopping to circulate, could smell it starting to coagulate, and each chest compression only made more blood spurt from your wound. I– You have no goddamn idea–” His chest was heaving as he looked Quinn dead in the eye. “Never. Never do that again.” He tried to take a steadying breath, but it caught halfway in his throat and came out sounding an awful lot like a sob, “Please.” 

Quinn looked away from the open vulnerability displayed on Vincent’s face. His blanket was suddenly much more interesting as he absently twirled the hem between his fingers.

“Why weren’t you responding to comms?” He asked to disperse the tense silence. 

Thankfully Vincent knew him better than to force a conversation about their feelings onto him. 

“One of the perps dislodged it when we were fighting.” Vincent went over to the chair and brought it back to the bed, it was still intact. He sank back into it, and silence filled the room again.

After a while, Vincent broke it.

“Do you want to talk about the vision?”

Quinn sighed and closed his eyes, trying not to relive the images.

“Not really.” He admitted, hoping Vincent would leave it at that.

Instead of pushing the issue, a cold hand wrapped around his restless one and squeezed it gently. Quinn took a shuddering breath, and squeezed it back. 

s h o c k 🔴

[tomodoyo]

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[ella-and-the-ocean]

This made me think of something :3

[slightly nsfw]

+ + +

Quinn crawls into bed after a night out with Danny, his clothes still on and a little tipsy. He nuzzles at Vincent's neck who's lightly dozing, tries to get his attention.

Vincent turns around, ready to indulge him, if nothing else because Quinn always gets very eager to give head when he's drunk and who'd be Vincent to deny him that.

But then he smells the garlic on his breath and immediately withdraws, Quinn lets out a sad whine, chasing after him, but Vincent keeps him at an arm's length.

"You reek."

"S the alcohol." Quinn slurs.

"No, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Your mouth isn't going anywhere near my dick tonight."

"Was just a slice, please, Vince." Quinn tries to give him the sexy eyes but just ends up looking like a sad pup.

"Not a chance. But if you go, get a shower and brush your teeth, I might let you sleep next to me instead of on the couch."

Half an hour later a freshly showered Quinn is tumbling into bed, and Vincent lets him wrap around him like a clingy octopus. Quinn buries his face at the crook of his neck and sighs contently. "Love you," he mumbles sleepily.

He is still reeking, but Vincent is willing to put with that if it means he gets to see Quinn all soft and open like this.

"Love you, too."

Does Quinn like garlic bread?

I'd assume that Vincent better hope he does not.

oh he does, as does any self-respecting human ✋ but he tries to abstain for his bf's sake

quinn, after consuming 15 garlic knots in as many minutes, banished to the farthest corner of the house: how long do I have to stay like this

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